Some Days Are Weird

Originally Published Monday, January 21, 2013

Some days just start weird.  On Saturday afternoon, I changed the litter in the cat's box.  I did this outside in front of her as she stood apart watching, fascinated. This morning as I had coffee and read the news on the internet, she wasn't lying on my feet.  In the bathroom, I heard a soft scratching.  Eventually, I went to pee, and there, in the dark, I saw the outline of the cat, her eyes looking up.  She was lying in the litter box.  No shit, I was freaked.  She didn't move when I walked in but hunkered down like she was going to take a beating.  I told her in a very derogatory tone that she was a friggin' freak.  She slunk off as I did my business. 

On Saturday night, I shot with the girl with Betty Davis eyes.  C.C. says Jean Seberg.  Q says Deborah Harry.  Whichever, when I saw her portfolio, I knew I had to shoot with her.  I had been seduced.  The next seduction was mine.

She texted.  So sorry, I'm going to be late.  I was not in the mood and thought bad things.  How late, I asked, but I got no response.  I texted back that she should let me know when she got to the studio.  I would come back.  She did.  I told her I would be there in ten minutes.  Of course, I made it twenty.  So the entire things started off badly. 

When I got there, she was with her boyfriend.  Oh, good, I thought.  I will send them packing.  But I wanted to shoot with her, and he sat in the reception room and never tried to interfere.  I'm glad I stayed the course. 

However, when I got up Sunday morning, I had texts from her that said she was nervous about some of the images.  Etc.  The cat was in the litter box.  In a bit, I had a shoot with a seventeen year old swimmer whose twenty year old sister was bringing her.  I had a faxed permission form from her mother.  I don't know.  I was feeling. . . worried. 

We shot with the big 8x10 Impossible film at $20/sheet.  I fucked up the first one.  I almost fucked up the second one but caught myself in time.  The film, however, had flaws. In total, I shot seven pieces of film and got three and a half images, all with the "charm" of the film's own grunge.  Afterward, I shot some of the old Polaroid film in the 4x5 camera, and as we were working it sounded as if something fell in the other room.  One of the encaustic works I'd been showing must have tipped over, I thought, but in a bit I smelled electrical smoke.  The Polaroid processor I had purchased for $800 had blown.  Smoke was coming from the plug.  It was an expensive day. 

Working creatively with people is much more difficult than you might think.  It takes its toll on you.  I am pretty sure my photography is moving in a different direction now.  I've taken steps and measures.  I tell myself I must do more, but somehow, I swear, it feels like doing less.  I told the artist in the studio across the parking lot that I was finished shooting women in certain ways.  I'm going to shoot men in uniforms, I told him.  Sure, he said, there's a great market for that. 

What the hell.  This is not a day to decide anything.  The 49ers and the Ravens are in the Super Bowl.  Marin Luther King Jr. and Obama own the day.  And me. . . I had dinner with my mother and am ready to enjoy the extra day off.  I am beginning to be swayed more and more by the act of doing nothing.